


A Darker Day

by FmPdx



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/F, Illustrated, Illustrations, Lena Luthor goes full Batman, Lena Luthor-centric, Vigilante Lena, dystopian National City AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FmPdx/pseuds/FmPdx
Summary: Something in Lena Luthor shatters when Kara is taken, and she will burn the world to the ground to bring her back. Who can she trust? And can she save the woman she loves without sacrificing everything in the process?





	

Lena Luthor is understandably a touch distracted.

She did just watch her own funeral not six hours prior, a fact that should be enough to set even the steeliest of nerves on edge. And then there is the government agency she is currently attempting to infiltrate, which probably doesn’t help scattered thoughts much.

Lena takes a deep breath and focuses all her attention on the guard posted at the rear door. From her vantage point across the street she can make out at least two sidearms, as well as a low profile comm unit draped over the man’s left ear. His body armor extends the line of his jacket in a bulky, abnormal fashion. Not the most high-end kit — it might limit his mobility.

So her advantage has to be speed.

Speed and surprise.

It will have to be enough.

This will be the true test run of her new gear, a real make or break moment. Either the tech she stole from Luthor Corp will work and she’ll be able to accomplish her objective — or she’ll end up in the hospital with a sucking chest wound, having to explain why a dead woman just attempted to break into an NSA data center.

Lena chuckles to herself. Who is she kidding? These operators won’t maim. If this goes sideways, she’ll end up actually and truly dead.

And if she's out of the picture, who will help Kara?

The idea of failure is too much to handle. Lena tugs at the drawstrings of her hooded sweatshirt. It’s twenty-three steps to the other side of the street. Another fifteen to the guard. He’ll see her before she reaches him. There’s no cover to speak of. Surprise, right?

A part of her wishes she had just waited until she could repair the helmet. Being able to hide her face with more than a black hoodie and a balaclava would be nice right about now.

She doesn’t have any other option. There is no time. This is the plan she made. It has to work.

Kara needs her.

Lena takes another breath to steady herself. The fingers of her right hand trace the line of her throat, slipping down until they find her collar bone. She lets out a hiss as her thumb and index finger graze over the irritated skin surrounding two surgically implanted metal nodes protruding from her flesh. The pressure she has to apply to activate them is minimal, but it still hurts like hell.

The sensation that comes after is euphoric. Warmth spreads over her entire body, like slipping into a perfectly heated bath. That feeling is chased by a keen awareness of the space she currently occupies. She glances down at her hands just in time to watch a viscous tar-like substance encase her fingertips. Every sense is heightened to the nth degree. The breeze gently blowing down the street is analyzed, atmospheric pressures recorded, chemical compositions quantified. Her feet become aware of previously indistinguishable vibrations emanating from the pavement. Sensory overload is approaching at light speed.

She has to maintain control, keep her new edge sharp.

Lena tugs the knit face mask up over her chin until the close fitting fabric rests against the bridge of her nose. She adjusts her hood, drawing the cords tight, then buries her hands deep into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she jogs across the street, counting each stride, eyes focused on her target.

He’s lighting a cigarette. His vision is averted, focus down, periphery blocked by boxy hands cupping his lighter in an attempt to shield its pitiful flame from the breeze.

She almost has to laugh at his complacency.  Nothing like being an average white man with a gun and a badge.

She’s on him before he has time to speak.

Basic hand-to-hand combat skills take hold. Lillian always mocked her for taking Krav Maga, but a life lived under bright lights and public obsession made Lena wary, and a few run-ins with aggressive paparazzi taught her she needed to be ready for anything. She had no idea how right that instinct actually was until now.

Her strikes are fast, practiced. He never had a chance. A balled fist finds his throat, then the bridge of his nose — finally, obsidian coated fingers grip his shaved head and bring it, with all the force she can muster, directly into the red brick wall — once — twice. He goes down.

Lena checks her periphery: no passing cars; no bystanders; her suit’s sensors read clear. _God, that’s a strange feeling._

Awkwardly, she drags the larger man’s bulky frame behind the nearest dumpster, zip-ties his hands and feet with his own cuffs, and relieves him of his key card. She almost walks away without getting everything she needs. She stoops next to him and wraps a hand around the Fed’s wrist.  There’s a strange, palpable feeling of examination, like she is the inner workings of a scientific calculator mapping a complex sine wave. Without a functioning readout she has no idea how complete the scan is — a good ten count will have to be enough.

The shift change is happening and she is rapidly running out of time.

The facility will no doubt be packed with wide angle security cameras. She was able to manually take down the exterior ones, but the interior cameras are on a more secure network. She adjusts her mask and hood. Subtlety is not even a footnote in this plan of hers.

Hit hard.

Cause confusion.

Extract the data.

Get out fast.

There is no room for delicacy.

She hears the locks pop with a swipe of his key card. Lena keeps her head down, shoulders squared, snapping the door open and slipping through the gap in one fluid motion. It’s a stairwell, switchbacking upward. Her hand grips the railing and a map forms in her mind’s eye. Not really. Not completely. But every surface of the suit that touches the cool metal of her new environment reverberates with energy. When she closes her eyes, she can see the echo. Nine flights up to the roof access; one flight down to the basement parking garage.  If the helmet hadn’t been damaged in the explosion, she would have a more reliable and lab tested interface to interpret this data. Trusting the raw intel released directly into her synapses is going to take time, which is a luxury she doesn’t possess.

Four floors up and she’s where she needs to be. The biometric scanner in conjunction with the key card lock assembly screams government regulation secure entry.

Here’s where she gets to see if the ten count on the NSA agent was enough.

She stretches her fingers. There’s movement just above her skin. It tingles — prickles, even  — as her suit recalls the curves and ridges of the downed man’s fingerprints. Lena presses her hand to the screen.

If this doesn’t work, there is always the shaped semtex charge in a zipper pocket of her hoodie. Blow the lock. Set off the alarms. Bring down all the heat.  It would be loud and extremely messy.

Red lights on the scanner blink, then go green.

Nervous relief sweeps through her body. She’d throw up if she had more time. Instead, she swipes the key card and presses down on the lever. A stray thought about the time and when the shift change was due to happen is answered almost immediately. She will have five minutes, maybe less.

Entering this building is her ultimate act of defiance. Defiance towards her family, towards everything the Luthor name has come to stand for. Defiance towards her country who saw fit to shackle its greatest heroes because of fear mongering and strategic misinformation. She has given up so much. Her work. Her home. Her life, in a manner of speaking. The Lena Luthor the world lost is a ghost now, a harrowing specter of vengeance. The alterations she made to herself are on a permanent, physiological level. Their ramifications probably won’t be known for years to come — but it will all be worth it if she comes out of this data hub holding the whereabouts of Kara Zor-El.

She gestures at the security camera at the end of the hall as she advances. A single finger salute to whoever may be looking, and to whoever will be looking at the footage in the future.

Feedback into the soles of her feet let her know who’s walking, in what direction, their general weight and build calculated. Lena pauses near a series of cubicle walls, crouched behind a huge copy machine, waiting to make her move. The server room is close. She still has time. A card swipe and fingerprint scan later, and she’s standing in a temperature controlled data room.

It was too easy.

Lena unzips her hoodie and digs into the tactical vest beneath, plucking a micro flash drive from one of the pockets. She plugs the device into the room’s lone terminal. Her decryption algorithm sets to work, breaking passphrases and gaining access. A complete download should take ninety seconds.

So now it’s just ninety seconds of waiting.

She is toying with the idea of splicing a transmitter into one of the server stacks when a vibration sets all her nerves on edge. Heavy boots bounding up stairs with trained precision, too many to accurately count.

“Fuck,” Lena hisses under her breath. It’s all too swift a reaction to have been the camera. She definitely tripped some silent alarm — her ease of entry came from an orderly evacuation rather than stealth or luck.

Every possible exit is being choked by armed units of the National City Police.

Her mind races; the call and response of the nano-machines coating her skin and flowing through her bloodstream is too much. Blackness creeps in at the edges of her vision.

_Not now. No._

She plucks the flash drive from the port and zips up her outer layer, cinching the hood strings to tighten her meager disguise.

“Breathe. Focus. Breathe. Focus.” A mantra mumbled low and stern to herself. Directives. Things she has chanted in the back of her mind ever since a strike team descended on Catco and took the only person who ever mattered to her.

Lena squares her broad shoulders and prepares herself for what is about to unfold.

 

* * *

 

Of all the things Maggie Sawyer needed today, some nut-job breaking into a government building in the middle of downtown, in broad daylight nonetheless, was not on the list. Nah, that little gem was beat out by a decent cup of coffee, a lunch that won’t give her heartburn, and oh… maybe her girlfriend not being incarcerated for aiding and abetting a known enemy of state.

Maggie sets her jaw, teeth grinding against each other. She gives a nod to the NCPD SWAT team leader, who in turn nods at the pair of federal agents who brought them up the elevators after they responded to the silent alarm call. Double doors unlocked, they all file quickly into what seems to be a completely mundane office, painted and decorated in varying degrees of grey and beige.

 _Greige_. That’s a thing now, right? Gross.

Actions by the book, in this case. A clean sweep and advance, weapons at the ready. No sense in being reckless — there is no telling what type of criminal they could be dealing with. A crackle in her ear, and the other units begin their check in. First response teams are in place in stairwells as well as on surrounding rooftops. They all know government units are on their way. When all’s said and done, Maggie and her team will have to hand this investigation over to the Feds, a fact that doesn’t sit well with a career detective.

But she doesn’t have much choice in the matter.

Maggie gives a nod to her squad leader and gestures forward. All their collective attention is focused on one door at the rear of the office. For good or ill, something is about to go down.

One of the on-site federal agents speaks into a bullhorn. “We have the building surrounded. Come peacefully and we will see to it you are treated fairly.”

Maggie frowns. Besides the phrase “treated fairly” being a flat out fucking lie, the rest of his announcement sounds comical as hell. Where did this guy learn his hostile communication from, Point Break?

“Come out with your hands up. Now.”

Nothing.

Just eerie silence.

The crouched position she’s gotten herself into starts to make her thighs burn. Maggie adjusts her stance. A creak snaps her attention back up to the door, which is now swinging slowly open. Out of instinct, she begins to advance — an action that is swiftly shut down. The feds flash her twin cold glares, and Maggie settles back into her support role.

She watches their blue jackets move up until they are both flanking the door.

On a three count the feds enter the room, and just as quickly as they enter, things start to go very wrong.

There are sounds of a struggle. Firearms discharging. Maggie goes on autopilot: orders issued to surrounding teams, sidearm raised and leveled at the door, she moves forward. “This is Detective Maggie Sawyer of the NCPD. We have you surrounded. Exit with your hands raised.”

There is no response.

Maggie is starting to wonder if what she’s dealing with isn’t human. It wouldn’t be completely shocking considering the current political climate. Aliens all over the country are being systematically detained, regardless of status or criminal history. Fear is winning on a disturbing scale.

“Look. I know things are bad right now. I just don’t want to see anyone else hurt. Okay?” She’s moving up the main aisle, no cover. And no matter how many times she’d done rouge, dumbass shit like this, it still makes her heart pound against her ribs like a hammer. “You don’t have to do this.”

God, how she wants to believe her own stupid words.

The figure that emerges from the darkened room appears to be humanoid, dressed in all black. Their face is almost completely obscured, closely drawn hood providing cover along with some sort of dark mask. It’s the details that start to confuse Maggie. The suspect’s hands are balled into fists. They do not appear armed, but somehow cylindrical truncheons extend from their... forearms? Like the weapons are a part of them? Maggie squints, edging closer to get a better look. Everything about this person is obfuscated. Their skin is coated in an unreal black, not reflecting any light, seeming somehow dimensionless.

“Drop — drop your weapons,” Maggie calls out, keenly aware her teammates are moving into positions to flank the suspect.

The figure twitches, refusing to surrender.

Her finger slips around the trigger. When she got out of bed this morning, she wasn’t thinking today would be the day she’d have to shoot someone. “Drop ‘em. Now. This is your last warning.”

There is a pulse, a wave of force that hits Maggie square in the chest and sends her senses reeling.

Human or not, this thing can move. The detective is too distracted by a sudden and painful ringing in her ears to register what exactly set them off, but they make short and brutal work of two of her SWAT team members before stray rounds force Maggie to dive for cover. The bullets sing past her, blowing sizable holes through cubicle partitions. And she has now completely lost sight of their hostile.  Great.

Maggie fumbles for her radio. She tries once, twice. All attempts to raise the NCPD teams in the stairwells fail. No signal, no response. The channel is just dead. “Shit.”

Did this freakshow just blast her with an EMP?

She scrambles to her feet, head still ringing, and makes her way back into the aisle as sounds of fighting continue. A helmeted body in SWAT gear is tossed into a dividing wall, flattening it no more than five feet in front of her.

Maggie’s stance is strong as she levels her gun at her target. “Stand down or I will shoot.”

The hostile takes a step towards her and instinct kicks in. Her round finds its mark, punching into the shoulder of the perp. A shot meant to maim, not kill. She has far too many questions for this asshole to let them die.

But the bullet barely has any effect.

What comes next seems to play out in slow motion. Maggie watches the suspect drop their stance and run at full speed directly at her. There isn’t enough time to react to the charge. A shoulder catches Maggie in the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of her. She is lifted off her feet. Carried. Bum-rushed. It feels very much like the handful of times she played full contact football in the park with the guys on her unit, or like when one of her ex’s tried to teach her rugby.

Rationally, she is aware she has dropped her sidearm. She is also aware she is desperately trying to grab hold of anything that will stop their combined momentum, to no avail. Maggie also recognizes that the two of them are headed for the window at almost the exact moment the glass shatters and they are hurtling towards the street below.

An adjustment is made. She is twisted in midair. The hooded figure’s strong arms wrap around her, rotating their bodies during to freefall to ensures the impact is absorbed through _them_ , through _their_ body… whatever it might be made of.

So when they both slam into the top of a delivery van on the far side of the building, Maggie’s experience of the event is unexpectedly forgiving. Not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but she’s not dead after a four story drop, so that’s saying something.

Sirens are wailing in the distance. There is shouting. Her hearing is buzzing in and out, deafening one second, faint the next. She is hyper aware of safety glass crinkling as she starts to move, tumbling off her NCPD windbreaker and onto the metal roof of the van. Maggie winces as mobility returns to her. A few moments of laying pressed against her assailant and she is now extremely aware that the body beneath her is female. As her eyes regain focus and her limbs pull themselves free from the perp’s grasp, she reaches up, pulling away the tightly drawn hood to expose pale skin and dark hair. A pair of unforgettable green eyes bolt open at the intrusion.

Shock doesn’t quite cover it. “But — you’re dead.”

As statements go, it’s a pretty amazing one to get to mumble right before someone thoroughly and decisively rings your bell. A swift strike to Maggie’s temple and her world goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this fic for a long time now. Not sure how many chapters it will be or the frequency with which they'll come out, but know I am determined to free this idea from my brain. 
> 
> God bless tough dames who take no shit.
> 
> Check out my illustrations of Lena's suit on tumblr:  
> <https://foleypdx.tumblr.com/post/156958383182/tactical-lena-been-messing-around-with-an-au>  
> <https://foleypdx.tumblr.com/post/158331852892/vigilante-lena-kicking-cadmus-ass-still-plotting>


End file.
